Author's notes: The following story takes place soon after the conclusion of Legacy
of the Force.
This is the 10th Star Wars story that I have written. Please leave me feedback, public or through email. (ahandcuffgirl at yahoo dot com)

The
woman, naked and half-asleep, shifted on the deck as she heard the
hatch to the cargo bay slide open. Then she heard, and felt, the
rhythm of booted footsteps on the deck.

The
steady beat of the boots reached into her dreams, making her frown as
she realized there was something she should be remembering—but
she was still exhausted from her on-duty shift the night before.
She'd been fucked virtually non-stop for the whole eight-hour
session, injected with a powerful stimulant to make her last longer,
come more often, and come harder.

Right
now, she was too beat to think much—and she didn't really want
to leave the pleasant memories of how she'd been used.

She
shifted sleepily again, as she realized the footsteps had stopped.
Someone was standing over her, blocking the glowpanel.

“On
your feet,
Private Essex!” a commanding voice ordered.

The
girl shifted sleepily in response, vaguely remembering that 'Essex'
was her name—or at least, the one the crew of the transport
ship had made up for her, using the letters of her Imperial Serial
Number, SX-51472.

Officially,
she didn't actually have
a name. She certainly didn't need one, and she liked it that way.

Then
she felt the toecap of a boot nudge her naked body, and she became
more alert, her guilt increasing alongside her awareness as she
realized where she was. After going off-duty the night before, she
had been chained up by Sergeant Vixer in the corner of the
transport's cargo hold, and she had fallen asleep in her usual spot
on the deck.

She
blushed in embarrassment as she looked up guiltily at the man
standing over her. She wasn't embarrassed at her nudity. She was
embarrassed that she hadn't woken up immediately when called. The
human male standing over her was tall and heavily muscular, with
medium-tanned skin and a face that could have been carved from solid
anvilstone, wearing the gray overalls of an Imperial Navy
cargo-master.

SX-54172
bit her lip, and dropped her gaze, feeling embarrassed.

Beside
the man was a woman in an officer's uniform, with a pretty face, and
a stern expression. Her body was obviously strong and nicely curved
beneath her Imperial tunic and breeches.

The
female officer looked down at the slim girl on the floor with an
expression even more contemptuous than the man beside her.

“On
your feet,
Private!” the big man growled.

SX-51472
obeyed instantly, standing up fast and assuming the parade position:
feet apart, hands clasped behind her ass. As she moved, the chain
that linked her durasteel collar to the cargo ring on the deck
shivered.

SX-51472  Seventy-Two,
for short  was naked. She had brown hair that was cut very
short, and she was slim, lithe and slight of stature, but athletic.
Her lean muscles had the strength and definition that came from
months of intensive ProCorps workouts. On the toned abs of her lower
belly, between her navel and her smooth, hairless pussy, she had a
tattoo of the Imperial sigil, with her official title  Imperial
Prostitute  and
serial number inscribed beneath it.

The
phrase Imperial
Property
was printed across her tight butt-cheeks, too  one word on each
side of her ass.

Apart
from the tattoos, the only things she wore was the heavy durasteel
collar round her neck, with the chain leash fastened at the front.

“Bad
girl, Essex,” Vixer grinned, running his gaze up and down her
curves, leering at her like he always did when they talked. “Not
the best way to impress your new commanding officer.” As he
spoke, he gestured at the attractive-looking female officer beside
him. “This is Captain Garowyn, the commandant of Zeta
Garrison. Flew out specially so we could make the cargo transfer
early. She's officially in charge of you as of oh-two-hundred.”

Seventy-Two
nodded, understanding all that she needed to. Garowyn was, in
effect, her new owner. “Yes, sir.”

“Yes,
sir,” Seventy-Two nodded, feeling herself getting wet at the
mere thought of her new duties. “Very eager to serve, sir.”
She liked the hungry way that Vixer and Garowyn were looking at her,
too. “Thank you, sir.”

“I
like her already,” the female officer remarked, in a clipped
military voice  a close imitation of a Core Worlds accent that
didn't quite hide her Outer Rim origins. Her eyes kept exploring
Seventy-Two's naked body as she continued. “The personnel
report from ProCorps said she was good at her duties?”

“I'll
bet she does,” Garowyn answered, grinning smugly in pleasure at
the thought. Then, slowly, she began to walk around Seventy-Two,
inspecting her naked body. “I hear the ProCorps training has
become even more. . . thorough.”

In
reply, Seventy-Two just stood there, proud of her training, her body,
and her identity. She had been taught to accept this treatment  to
obey and be admired, to be used and enjoyed however the heroic men
and women of the Galactic Empire's Starfleet wanted to treat her.

In
return, she gained pleasure from her sexual duties, and from the fact
that her obedient service improved the morale and thus the strength
of the Imperial military.

“Lost
'em before she reported aboard, Cap'n,” Vixer shrugged. “Just
like the three girls before her. I filed a report with ProCorps,
but. . .”

Garowyn
chuckled at the obvious lie. “And the report you transmitted
said she's committed lots of minor disciplinary infractions,”
she added, pinching Seventy-Two's breasts to get a feel for them.
“But so did the corporal she's replacing, and she's proved an
exemplary
little
slut.”

Seventy-Two
didn't answer. Vixer had thrown her things in the trash compactor
when she reported aboard the transport, and the series of
disciplinary charges had been fabricated so he could imprison and
humiliate her for the whole length of the trip to Zeta.

But
she didn't correct the NCO. She knew her place, and she enjoyed it.
Also, apart from the pleasure she felt in satisfying her superiors'
sexual urges, the lost equipment and demerits acted as an excuse to
allow her to perform extra duties, something she always looked
forward to.

She
had incurred several automatic fines for the 'mistakes', and she
would have to earn the debt back  with interest  by letting
Captain Garowyn pimp her out during her off-duty hours.

Seventy-Two
had to hide a smile of eager anticipation.

“Very
good, SX-51472,” Garowyn nodded, as she came to a stop directly
in front or her. “They say you're a qualified fighter pilot
and mechanic?”

“Yes,
Captain,” Seventy-Two
nodded, feeling a tingle between her legs. Every girl in the corps
was also a fully-trained Imperial Navy trooper. She hadn't
originally trained to be a prostitute.

“You
were originally assigned to the TIE Fighter Command, but before you
finished basic training you applied for transfer to the Prostitution
Corps?”

Seventy-Two's
cunt clenched, and she couldn't quite hide the blush that rose to her
cheeks at the question. “Yes, Captain. Psychological
assessments and corrective therapy helped me realize the best way for
me to serve the Empire was on my back.”

“Well,
I'm delighted to have you here, SX-51472,” Garowyn smirked.
She put one hand to Seventy-Two's shoulder, and gripped her firmly.
“Even if you obviously need more training to get up and on your
feet after a sleep shift.”

As
Seventy-Two blushed in shame, she stepped back, and glanced at the
cargo master. “Sergeant Vixer, time to get her through
processing.”

Vixer
smirked again, walked over to the naked Imperial Prostitute, and
reached up, unfastening the chain from her collar, and replacing it
with a short leash. “Yes, ma'am. C'mon, Essex.”

“Yes
sir,” Seventy-Two agreed obediently as he tugged the leash.
She saluted her new commanding officer, then followed the
cargo-master across the familiar cargo bay that had been her home for
the past five weeks, with her head held high like she'd been trained.

Garowyn
fell in step behind, admiring her ass, and the way she walked.
Seventy-Two liked that. She liked being appreciated for what she
was, and she was pleased that her new commanding officer had the
confidence to do that.

Seventy-Two
followed Vixer in silence, resisting the urge to run her hand over
her damp snatch. She had long gotten used to her permanently
hairless pussy, and liked it like it was, smooth on the outside,
often wet on the inside  but she also liked the training that
meant that she couldn't touch it without permission, except when she
was cleaning it after use.

It
wasn't far to the area where slaves and other human cargo were
processed. She had spent a lot of duty hours here, and she had to
suppress a smile of remembered pleasure. She didn't need to be told
to stand with her legs apart on the grille, or to lift her hands for
the pair of manacles hanging from the ceiling.

Garowyn
watched in silent satisfaction.

“So,
guess this is your new home, slut,” Vixer grinned, glancing out
the viewport at something she couldn't see.

“Yes,
sir,” Seventy-Two answered, grinning as he closed the manacles
around her slim wrists.

The
main purpose of processing was to make sure she wasn't carrying any
spice. Seventy-Two bit her lip in pleasure as two fingers probed her
asshole, but she accepted it without question. Rebel agents trying
to discredit the Empire had tricked some ProCorps troops and
newly-purchased Twi'lek slaves into serving as 'spice rontos,' with
pouches of ryll and gliterstim hidden in their pussies. The
procedure ensured that Seventy-Two wasn't going to be taken advantage
of like that.

“You
done good aboard the ship, Private,” Sergeant Vixer said,
pinching her butt as he ran the scanners over her body. “You
ever wonder about applying for a transfer outa ProCorps?”

“Thank
you, sir,” Seventy-Two replied. “And no, sir.”
She frowned at the question that Vixer had asked, as his fingers
worked their way round to the folds of her pussy. Why would she want
to stop doing a job she loved?

“There's
a story that a lot of you sluts used to be prissy little Rebel
bitches who got brainwashed and taught yer place,” he grinned,
toying with her clit.

Brainwashed?!
Seventy-Two thought. “I don't know about any of the other
prissy little Rebel bitches, but I
certainly haven't been brainwashed, Sir,” she said indignantly.
She had nothing but disdain for most of the current 'prissy little
Rebel bitches.'

Vixer
laughed at that. “Just a story, I know, but all these weeks we
been together, and you never told me your real name, or anything
about yourself ...”

“I
have been trained to serve the Empire, sir,” she answered,
quiet and obedient. “I prefer to focus on my ProCorps duties,
and due to the confidentiality protection of the Prostitution Corps,
I am not authorized to discuss my former name and identity.”

“Uh-huh?”
Vixer nodded, looking at her with slight confusion. Then he stood
straight, unshackled her hands, and slapped her ass. “C'mon.
Just one thing left to do here.”

“Yes,
sir?” Seventy-Two replied, looking up at him in anticipation.

“Come
'ere, slut,” he said, walking across towards the wall where the
restraints were stacked, tugging her leash towards him.

She
obeyed, half-hoping for a kiss or even a quick fuck  but with an
officer watching, she knew that was unlikely. Instead, he produced a
transmitter and ran it across the side of her collar, opening the
lock and then lifting the heavy shackle away from around her neck.

Vixer
gave her an apologetic look. “Cap'n Garowyn wants you naked
an' her own collar on you. Besides,
this belongs to the ship.”

“Yes,
sir,” Seventy-Two nodded. She was used to the lack of
clothes  she hadn't worn anything except restraints since the
freighter left Bastion  but she felt properly naked now, without
the shackle on her neck.

“It
don't feel right without the collar, huh?” Vixer grinned, his
eyes looking her up and down again.

Seventy-Two
nodded, blushing. “No, sir, it doesn't.” She bit her
lip. “And, th-thank you, sir, for treating me the way I like.”

Vixer
grinned, and ruffled her hair in a gesture of genuine affection.
“It's been a pleasure, Essex. Did I ever tell you you're one
of the best sluts the Empire ever gave me to fuck?”

“That
they did,” Vixer agreed. “Much better than what you used
to be, I'll bet.”

“Thanks,
sir,” Seventy-Two whispered, pleased by his approval. She was
forbidden from discussing her past, but she was
a better person now, and she was glad that Sergeant Vixer had
noticed  and appreciated.

“Now
get outa here,” the sergeant growled. “Cap'n Garowyn,
the girl is yours.”

“Thanks,
Sergeant,” Garowyn stepped forward, smiling in pleasure as she
locked a new durasteel collar around Seventy-Two's neck, formally
taking charge of her. Since the Imperial computers had her full, 3-D
body scan, the collar fit perfectly. Then Captain Garowyn attached
her leash to the O-ring on the front of the collar. She held the
leather handle casually as she took a hand-held scanner from Vixer
and entered her authorization code, confirming that she had taken
charge of her new piece of human equipment.

“Yes,
sir,” Seventy-Two agreed. She was blushing and grinning with
joy as she left and marched down the corridor.

Captain
Garowyn led her quickly to the freighter's airlock  the one used
to dock with shuttles. Most of the transport's crew members were
there, helping to move cargo across to the garrison's ship. They
were all tough, handsome soldiers, who looked up and grinned as she
walked up naked with Captain Garowyn.

“Would
you like to say goodbye to them, SX-51472?” Garowyn inquired.

Seventy-Two
nodded, gratefully eager. “Yes, Captain.”

Garowyn
smiled. “On you go then. Troops, show Private Essex how much
you've appreciated her being on board.”

The
crew responded eagerly, passing Seventy-Two between them with gropes
and hungry kisses. At least two of them even thrust their fingers
shamelessly into her wet snatch. They knew she liked that.

She
responded to it all enthusiastically. Like every ProCorps trooper
being hauled as cargo to a new assignment, she'd been assigned to the
crew for the duration of the voyage, and she'd worked hard to please
them. The way they were treating her was a clear indication of her
success.

She
had done her duty by the men and women she was assigned to.

“Okay,
playtime's over,” Captain Garowyn said, and the crew released
her. Seventy-Two fell into parade stance in front of Captain
Garowyn, leash swinging between her breasts, and saw a slim, athletic
blonde girl step out of the airlock. She had a bowed head, and she
was hauling a repulsor sled that must have been used to move the
cargo crates over to Captain Garowyn's shuttle.

She
was wearing the tight breeches, high-heeled black leather boots and
shiny durasteel corset of a ProCorps trooper  evidently, this
was the trooper that Seventy-Two was replacing.

There
was no sign of the rest of the blonde's uniform  her tunic and
cap, and the rest of her regulation restraints. Instead, she had a
shock-collar welded shut around her neck, and heavy binders, also
welded closed, that kept her hands cuffed tight behind her back.

Then
Seventy Two saw how
she was hauling the repulsor cart, leashed up to it by long durasteel
chains, fastened to the D-rings on the back of her corset.

Seventy-Two's
pussy pulsed in excitement at the sight.

“Corporal,”
Garowyn said, grinning at the girl. “Come here and say goodbye
to me properly.” Without waiting for the blonde's response,
Garowyn stepped forward, grabbing her and making out hungrily with
her. The girl responded, unresisting and eager.

Seventy-Two
just watched, delighted. ProCorps girls were expected to do other
duties when they weren’t having sex. They obviously enjoyed
being used, and that translated well to the performance of
humiliating menial tasks  but this was the first time she'd seen
this particular duty, and she hoped it would be part of her own new
assignment.

Captain
Garowyn also seemed to be a pretty good kisser.

As
Garowyn pushed the girl away, Seventy-Two saw the flash of green eyes
on her face, three scars fanned in a vee across her forehead. The
girl assumed the parade stance almost instantly, head bowed, but it
was too late. Seventy-Two had recognized her.

“Yes,
ma'am,” Seventy-Two blushed, noting that Garowyn used
Seventy-Three's serial number, rather than a name  evidently,
she didn't believe that Imperial Prostitutes needed names.

Seventy-Three
just stood there, blonde head bowed and booted feet spread far apart.
She looked well-disciplined, even better than when Seventy-Two had
last seen her at their graduation, as if the last traces of her
personality and free will had been erased forever.

“You
two were bunkmates at the Academy, right?” Garowyn asked,
looking back and forth between them.

“Yes,
Captain.” Seventy-Two had been trained not to add more. The
girl she'd once been had known the girl who was now Seventy-Three
long before they joined the Empire, but that didn't matter any more.

“Anything
you want to say to her?”

“No,
Captain.” Seventy-Three was attractive, and had been a good
fuck, but like her, she was a ProCorps trooper  they knew their
place. The breaking of their emotional bonds and reformation of them
to the Empire was part of what made them what they were now.

Seventy-Three
let out a moan that sounded almost like despair,
but
which Seventy-Two knew was one of pleasure and submission.

Seventy-Two
also sensed slight disappointment from the crew. She hated to see
Imperial Personnel disappointed, especially with her. So she leaned
in close to Seventy-Three, and kissed her.

Seventy-Three
quickly reciprocated, and they shared a passionate kiss, for their
audience's pleasure. Seventy-Two stepped in a little closer,
pressing their tits together. She threaded her hands between
Seventy-Three's cuffed arms and her durasteel corset, and pulled her
in tighter.

After
nearly thirty seconds of appreciative cheers, Captain Garowyn halted
the display by clearing her throat.

Seventy-Two
let her go and stepped away. Both returned to parade rest, and
still, neither said anything to the other.

The
blonde, who was still catching her breath from the lengthy kiss, gave
her a look of obedience and arousal. Then she turned and walked down
the corridor, where the grinning crew of the transport were waiting
to load her up with the last of the cargo, and to play with her in
anticipation of her first proper duty shift.

Seventy-Two
smiled to herself at the sight. She envied the fun that
Seventy-Three would have on the slow journey back to Bastion, but if
that was how every ProCorps trooper left the Zeta Garrison, she hoped
she was going to enjoy this assignment.

But
she kept those thoughts to herself. She just stood at attention,
naked in front of her new commanding officer. Only the moist smell
of her pussy betrayed how horny she felt.

“This
way, then,” Garowyn said, then turned, and led her across the
airlock tube her own ship. Seventy-Two followed dutifully.

“Walk
forward and place your crotch against the ID scanner,” Garowyn
instructed. “The Shadow
Chaser
is my favorite plaything, and now your duty is to please me as well,
so you might as well get to know each other.”

Seventy-Two
obeyed, standing on tip-toes to raise her pussy to the height of the
computer scanner, twitching with excitement as she felt the sensor
pulses probe her snatch to scan the ID chip embedded there. She also
knew that Garowyn was eyeing her butt with great pleasure as she
stood behind her, while the personal shuttle's hatch opened.

She
suspected that Garowyn would be the first partner to take her at the
garrison. She might even put the Shadow
Chaser
on autopilot and fuck her on the way there.

She
was surprised, however, to find the cargo area of the shuttle much
smaller than she'd expected from her knowledge of the design. About
two-thirds of the main hold had been converted into a small gym.

“I
like to work out, and I know that ProCorps troopers are trained to
work out a lot, too,” Garowyn said, putting a hand on the small
of Seventy-Two's back, and leading her forward to the flight-deck
hatch. “Now, at the front, we have the bridge  you're
still flight-rated, right?”

“Good.
You'll be doing duty as my personal pilot. That means I get you to
myself more often, and you learn quicker to obey me.”

“Yes,
Captain.”

“Now,
the Shadow
Chaser
is special. She isn't quite like any other ship. So I probably have
to train you on how to treat her right.”

Seventy-Two's
pussy throbbed in helpless arousal. “Yes, Captain,” she
agreed quickly, bowing her head to hide the blush.

On
her service record, Seventy-Two already had several hundred flight
hours logged aboard this very ship, but that was from before the
Academy. As shocking as it seemed now, her best friend had stolen
the ship and then given it to her as a plaything; and Seventy-Two
herself  or rather, the bad girl she was then  had done her
very best to murder Garowyn when she came to claim her stolen
property.

She
felt shame, humiliation, and unending gratitude to the Empire for her
training.

Seventy-Two
was especially grateful that Garowyn was ignoring her past, and
treating her simply as the loyal, unnamed ProCorps trooper she'd
become.

That
was how she was meant to be treated  how she liked it. That was
why the Empire had trained her this way, rather than letting her make
the mistake of becoming a TIE pilot.

Garowyn
smirked. “Good. Now, astern, we have the bunk room,”
she said, leading Seventy-Two back through the hold and down the
passage into the rear of the hull. “This one’s mine,
that one down there will be yours. Your uniform is waiting there.
Communal shower, as you can see. Aft, we have the engine room, but
you don’t need to see that, do you?”

“No,
Captain.”

Garowyn
chuckled. “Do you just agree automatically with everything I
say?”

Seventy-Two
frowned slightly. “I guess, Captain.”

“You're
a credit to your training, slut.” Garowyn seemed pleased, and
that made Seventy-Two happy. Garowyn tweaked her nipple, and took
the leash off the front of her collar. “Time for you to show
me what you can do in the gym now, slut.”

“Yes,
Captain.”

Seventy-Two
followed her back into behind the hold, where she pulled on a tight
stretch leotard, and a pair of jogging shoes, all under the Captain’s
watchful gaze.

“Now,
show me what you've got. If I leave before you're finished, complete
your exercises, then wash, and get dressed, and join me on the flight
deck.”

“Yes,
Captain,” Seventy-Two grinned.

She
threw herself into her usual routine. She started with a
twenty-minute uphill run on the treadmill, followed by five minutes
of intensive weight work, and then fifteen minutes on the exercise
swoop. Then came half an hour of aerobics and ballet training.

When
she had finished, she was covered
with sweat, and her skin-tight leotard was as wet as her pussy after
a day on duty, revealing every detail of her body from her hard,
aroused nipples to the slit between her legs.

Garowyn
had left while she was doing her warm-down stretches, and Seventy-Two
obediently walked back through to the bunk area again on her own.
Stripping off completely, she stepped into the shower, and began to
wash.

As
she showered, she considered the process that had made her into an
Imperial ProCorps trooper. It wasn't something she thought about
much, but the Captain and the Sergeant's comments had reminded her.
As she leaned against the wall and used the sponge as an excuse to
play a little with her clit, she relived the memories. She had once
been someone else; a Jedi Knight, fighter pilot, and near to a
complete breakdown after the manipulation
and abuse of her life in Rebel territory. But the training she had
received at the Imperial Academy had transformed her.

She
was much happier now.

After
just a couple weeks of training, she had applied to transfer to the
Prostitution Corps. There she discovered her true nature, learning
to embrace her sexuality and submissive tendencies. She quickly
forgot about her stupid plan to become a TIE fighter pilot, and let
the ProCorps Academy turn her into the person she should have always
been. As a freshly graduated ProCorps trooper, she had still
expected to be assigned to Commander Fel, the High Moff. He had been
her lover before the Academy, and she had half-thought that the
entire process had been designed to bring them closer together.

Instead,
she had been assigned to a series of ordinary military units, to
provide sexual services for common soldiers. Zeta Garrison, one of
the furthest outposts of the Empire, was her third tour of duty, a
year-long mission after a series of shorter assignments.

In
the ProCorps Academy, she had given herself mind and body to the
Empire. Her first assignment had been to a Star Destroyer, then to a
small, remote TIE fighter base. Next she found herself spending
long, exhausting shifts being fucked by every man in a stormtrooper
legion. Through it all she had obeyed without question, just like
she had been trained, and of course, she had loved every minute of
it.

She
knew that, after several years, the best and hardest-working ProCorps
soldiers were sometimes rewarded with permanent assignments as toys
for senior officers, but while she always tried to do her duty well
enough to be considered, that was simply a matter of being a good
Imperial.

Seventy-Two
had no ambition to be chosen  and even if she was, she felt no
particular desire for High Moff Fel, beyond a ProCorps trooper's
loyal love for their head of state, and absolute automatic obedience
to her Supreme Commander. Yes, she understood that it would be a
great honor to serve High Moff Fel directly, but she loved and obeyed
every
member of the Imperial military now, all the way down to the newest
recruit.

Turning
her into an ordinary front-line prostitute had been the move that
proved the complete success of her re-education. Her willing
acceptance of the new orders proved that her discipline and obedience
were driven by genuine loyalty to the Galactic Empire, not simply by
a desire for sex with Moff Fel.

The
most important thing about her new attitude was that, contrary to
anything Sergeant Vixer had heard, it hadn't been imposed on her by
brainwashing. It came from her own desires. She had just needed a
little help from the Empire to get in touch with them.

At
the ProCorps Academy, she had learned that what she really loved was
serving and obeying the Empire, no matter what  not having a
relationship with one man. Unless the Empire assigned her to one
specific man, that was.

Or
woman,
she reminded herself. Her bisexuality was something else the Empire
had taught her to accept, something else she loved the Empire for.

She
also liked the fact that everything about a ProCorps soldier's life
was so well organized. She needed no accommodation of her own. She
would have a small sleeping mat that she could unroll, but she
doubted she'd need it on many nights.

When
she had finished washing, Seventy-Two stepped back out into the bunk
area, and dried herself briskly with a towel from the rack. She
liked the fact that it bore the Imperial insignia and a batch/item
code on one corner, matching the sigil tattoo on her own belly.

After
that, she began to get dressed. Someone had put out the
specially-adapted uniform of a ProCorps soldier on the bunk.

First
came the chastity belt, a thin durasteel yoke that went around her
waist and crotch, with a soft plastex inner face. It locked
magnetically and was one hundred percent effective in preventing
access to her pussy. She was expected to wear it at all times except
when someone paid to unlock it, but the shuttle crew had taken it off
her, along with everything else except the heavy stun-collar they’d
made her wear  not that she was really complaining about that.

She
suspected things might be different in her new assignment, but she
wasn't complaining about that, either.

For
now, it simply felt good to have the first custom-fit item of her
uniform back. It simply felt right
to have the belt tight around her waist, the smooth curve pressed
seamlessly against her damp pussy.

Then,
she wrapped the corset of durasteel plates around her body, holding
her breath in as it locked in place, ensuring she kept her stomach
tight, her waist narrow, and her back parade-ground straight.

After
that, she locked on the collar. In contrast to the heavy durasteel
restraint she'd won aboard the transport, this one was designed to be
worn under her clothes. The main part was a tall choker around her
neck, relatively slim and lightweight for concealment inside the neck
of her uniform, but at its base there were thicker, heavier gorget
sections that sat tight around her shoulders.

Then
came the cuffs around her wrists  tight, shiny and less than a
centimeter
thick, but surprisingly heavy. The left-hand one was inscribed with
a chrono window, while the right-hand had a comlink grille. Like the
collar, they were standard parts of her new uniform, and to anyone
who glimpsed them while she was on duty, they would just seem to be
functional and attractive jewelry.

Next,
she tugged on her tight jodhpurs with their flared-out hips, and the
heavily-constructed uniform jacket, specially tailored for
emphasizing the curves of her hips, butt, waist and breasts. The
collar of the tunic was a little wide, to accommodate the durasteel
shackle underneath,
but it hid the choker well enough.

She
buckled the leather belt. It locked magnetically and would not open
again without an Imperial code. That was followed by the knee-boots
with their eighteen-centimeter spiked heels. They tightened once
she'd tugged them on. Concealed in the nerfhide were durasteel cuffs
shackling her legs at the ankles and just below the knees. Then it
was time for the short nerfhide gloves. They stopped just short of
her chrono and comlink, and weren’t part of her standard-issue
uniform, but an addition for her new role as Captain Garowyn's
personal pilot. They were probably the only thing she would wear on
Zeta that wasn't bondage-gear of some sort.

Finally,
she hooked the metal curves of the communications transceivers round
behind her ears, slotting the speaker earphones into place. Then she
began swaying to the music that drifted slowly into her thoughts, as
she plugged her spectacles into place. With the transceivers tucked
behind her ears, the slim, straight arms of the frame fit into holes
at the front of the metal earpieces, uplinking the glasses directly
to the Imperial HoloNet.

An
eye-blink later, the lenses came alive with information. She had
been trained to read the ultra-small type that flashed across her
field of vision. Instantly, she was learning the likes and dislikes
of her first several appointments at Zeta Garrison. Captain Garowyn
was at the top of the list. There were also the transparent
patterns that she had been trained to ignore. She knew both helped
her relax and perform her duties better, so she accepted the Empire's
help like a good ProCorps trooper. Seventy-Two
continued to prepare for duty, swaying slightly to the music all the
time.

Last,
she pulled on her uniform cap, took a few second to check herself out
in the mirror, then walked out. She kept her head held high, the
spiked heels giving her extra height and poise. Imperial Prostitute
SX-51472 was not fully complete unless she was in her uniform, and
now she was completely ready to serve the Empire ... in whatever
way Zeta Garrison's troops needed her.

She
was, in all but name, a slave of the Empire now, and she was much
happier than she had ever been as Jaina Solo.

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